by Guy Saville
He lined up the helicopter in his sights. The pilot was swerving left to right. Burton followed the movement, a madman watching a pendulum. Unblinking.
Left to right. Left to right.
He fired. Two shots.
Missed.
Fired again—
The cockpit vanished in a ball of flame. Neliah whooped.
Molten debris whipped down on them. Burton felt his face burn as he swivelled the gun to follow another Walküre.
One flashed past, through a wall of smoke, close enough for Burton to see the cockpit clearly. Next to the pilot was a familiar figure. Bald head, black eyes boring into him.
Burton gave a raw, animal scream from deep in his chest. Fired. His finger welded to the trigger. A blaze of shells. Then:
Click.
‘Reload!’
‘Burton.’ Neliah tugged at his shoulder.
‘I said reload! Now!’ Hochburg was soaring out of range.
Neliah pulled harder. He turned to her in a rage. Her face was pale, eyes like pinpricks. She pulled him one last time, before burrowing into the sandbags.
He looked up. Another gunship was almost upon them. It fired: a rocket ripping through the air.
Burton hurled himself on top of Neliah.
*
Patrick and Zuri reached the engine. Hot oily brass, steam. The driver cowered in the corner, hands over his head. Patrick yanked him to his feet. ‘Get this thing moving!’
‘I … I can’t.’
The helicopters screamed through the air above, the smoke stack from the engine whirling like a tornado. In the first car the prisoners were taking pot-shots.
‘Why not?’ said Patrick.
The driver didn’t give a reason, simply pulled away and squeezed himself back in the corner.
Patrick shoved his rifle into his face. ‘Do it or I’ll blow your fucking head off.’
The driver sank to his knees.
Zuri grabbed him, shoved him towards the control panel. ‘Agora!’
Hands shaking, he twisted a valve. Patrick felt the pressure in the engine build, the pistons pumping faster. Above them the stack began to thicken.
The driver checked some dials, glanced nervously at Patrick. He stepped back and using a metal hook lifted a panel in the floor to expose the firebox. There was a blast of heat, like a desert kiln. ‘We need more fuel,’ he said.
Patrick clambered on to the tender and began shovelling down coal. Zuri and the driver swept it into the firebox, re-stoked the engine.
An explosion.
Patrick stumbled on the coal, the shockwave almost knocking him off his feet. He looked up. Burton had taken out one of the Walküres. Was already tracking another, gun blazing; oblivious to the helicopter coming in from the other side.
A warning cry rose in Patrick’s throat – but it was useless.
The Walküre fired. The back of the train erupted in fire and claw marks of smoke.
‘Neliah!’ Zuri scrambled up the tender next to him. ‘Neliah!’
‘No,’ said Patrick, trying to pull her back. But she tore from his grip, down the coal and towards the first carriage, her red sash snapping behind her.
The Walküre that fired the rocket zoomed over the train before circling back for another shot. With it came the two helicopters that had been shying away from the battle so far.
Patrick’s eyes shrank with dismay.
He flicked a glance over the side, wondered if he should try his luck and jump. He had his pipe back, might just survive. Then he leapt back into the engine, snatched up his Enfield rifle and returned to the tender. He lay flat, lumps of coal poking against his ribs, black dust in his nostrils. Patrick took several deep lungfuls of air. Steadied his breathing.
The two troop carriers came in low.
The first hovered over the near car. Doors opened on both sides. Patrick could see right through: a silhouette of stormtroopers against the fading orange light. Ropes were thrown out, the soldiers took their positions.
Began to abseil on to the train.
Patrick zeroed the V-notch on the pilot. He saw him clearly in the bubble of the cockpit: he was focused on the roof below, guiding the joystick, trying to keep his helicopter perfectly positioned. His eyes were hidden behind a visor.
At the far end of the train there was another explosion. Munitions streaked the sky.
Patrick ignored it, held his breath. Judged the wind velocity and downdraught. Fifty knots at about forty, forty-two degrees. He aimed high. Three and half feet to the right, well above the cockpit. Squeezed the trigger. Felt the recoil snap his shoulder.
Nothing happened.
The troops kept coming. Their boots inches from touching down.
Then he saw it.
Patrick exhaled. A black thread trickled from under the pilot’s visor. Directly between the eyes. Burton’s words echoed in his head: you’re still the best shot I know.
The pilot slumped forward, driving the joystick between his legs.
The Walküre banked hard left. Some of the soldiers let go of their ropes, bounced off the roof over the sides, their screams snatched away by the wind. The others clung on. Were dragged with the gunship as it smashed into the ground.
There was a cloud of fire. Lethal spears of rotor blade exploded in all directions. Patrick buried his face into the coal, covering his head. Hot splinters lashed his arms and back.
Another Walküre descended on the tender, scouring it with cannon fire.
He had no choice but to throw himself backwards into the engine, use its walls for cover. Bullets zinged inches from his head, puncturing the metal. The driver curled himself into a ball, screaming one moment, silent the next: half his chest gone.
Patrick lifted his Enfield to take a shot at the helicopters – but the onslaught was too fearsome. Brass casings rained down on him.
Behind the Walküre, protected by its gunfire, Patrick glimpsed the other troop carrier. It hovered over the second carriage. Ropes were thrown out.
Next moment, stormtroopers began to descend.
The floor looked as if it had been mopped with blood. Everything rocked from side to side.
Burton could barely breathe, his lungs choked with what his father would have called das Höllenfeuer, hellfire. He pushed himself up, shook the sand from his hair.
The platform and sandbags were ablaze. The Breda gun a buckled wreck.
Neliah was hunched over Tungu, trying to lift her up. She failed, slipped on the blood-soaked floor. A jagged triangle of metal was buried deep in Tungu’s back, blood spewing from the wound. Her eyes already glassy.
The Walküre that had fired the rocket was coming round to attack again.
Still dazed, Burton reached over for the crate of dynamite, struggling not to slip on the floor. He opened the box, grabbed one of the bundles and twisted the timer to twenty seconds. Twenty, nineteen … Shoved it back in with the rest of the explosives.
The Walküre was descending.
‘Quick!’ said Neliah.
He grabbed his Thompson and together they jumped through the flames on to the next carriage. Burton immediately got to his knees and reached for the coupling that linked the carriage to the platform. The ground thundered below him, inches from his hand.
He cranked the disconnecting rod, still counting the seconds in his head, ten, nine, eight … Next, prised up the hook that connected the two parts of the train. Released it. The buffers strained … then tore apart, snapping the vacuum pipe between the two. There was a hiss and the brakes fired automatically.
The gun platform began to fall back. The Walküre honed in on it.
… Five, four, three …
Burton and Neliah watched the pilot bring the gunship level with the platform. The wind from the rotors flecked the air with Tungu’s blood.
The Walküre fired another rocket.
…Two, one.
The dynamite exploded, igniting the rest of the munitions like a huge Roman candle.
&
nbsp; Bolts shot into the air, glowing red and white. A sound that burned Burton’s ears. He thought of Dolan, how much he’d have enjoyed the spectacle, could almost hear his chortle of approval: BOOM!
The fire rained down on the Walküre, catching its engine. The pilot pulled away. Smoke trailed from the gunship’s exhaust port. It spun wildly, clipped the ground, bounced once, twice, crashed into the railway line.
There was no whoop from Neliah this time. ‘Tungu,’ she whispered next to Burton. He glanced at her. There was a livid burn on her forehead; her face was set hard.
Suddenly another explosion at the front of the train. Another helicopter reduced to fire and atoms. Its burning hulk streaked by spitting flames.
Burton turned towards the locomotive. One of the Walküres strafed it while another helicopter – a troop carrier – positioned itself above them.
‘Move!’ said Burton, pulling open the carriage door, thrusting Neliah in. They raced through it, knocking over the food bowls. Overhead the deafening clack of rotor blades. The thud of boots landing on the roof.
Burton fired upwards. He heard a bloody cry. Saw a body plummet off the roof.
Then a gust of wind. The door at the far end of the carriage was kicked open.
In stepped a hulking SS trooper. Slaughterhouse eyes, face smeared with camouflage paint. He was gripping an MG48.
Uhrig.
THE clatter of the helicopters faded as they pulled away from the train. In its place the wind rushing through the open door, the relentless thunder of the railway. Overhead, Burton heard boots tramp towards the back of the carriage. Several stormtroopers armed with BK44s stood behind Uhrig.
‘So you’re Cole,’ he said, scrutinising him. He seemed unimpressed.
Burton showed no reaction.
Next to him, Neliah took a step forward, her fist tight around her panga. ‘His shoulder,’ she hissed. Wrapped around Uhrig’s armpit was a ribband of plaited black hair.
Zuri’s hair.
Burton could feel the rage emanating from Neliah. Red-hot, deadly. He held out his hand to ward her off.
Uhrig saw the movement. Sneered. ‘I always prefer them with a bit of fight. Like that bitch at the camp. Pity I didn’t get a go on her myself.’
Burton placed himself between Uhrig and Neliah, began treading backwards, pushing her with him. His boots squished the rice and cassava on the floor.
Uhrig raised his MG48. ‘There’s no way off this train, Cole. My Wolves have it covered. Put down your weapon, the nigger too.’ The train rocked to the left. ‘The Governor General wants you alive.’
There was a burst of gunfire from behind Uhrig. He snapped around. Two of his men fell back, their torsos erupting. Someone was shooting from the roof above.
‘Zuri!’ said Neliah.
Burton fired his Thompson, bullets ricocheting round the walls. Pushed himself and Neliah back. ‘Go!’ He thrust her towards the far door. Let off another round of fire and followed.
They burst out into the fading daylight, to the ledge at the rear of the carriage. The Walküres were circling at a distance now. Huge black hornets waiting for their honey. From the roof Burton heard the scuffling of boots. A soldier was climbing down.
In a single movement Neliah swung her panga into his calf. A spurt of blood. He screamed, dropped his rifle. Neliah prised her blade out of his leg as Burton grabbed him and hurled him from the train.
‘Cover me!’ he said, handing Neliah the machine gun and climbing upwards.
On top the savannah flashed past even faster. The edge of the roof was sticky with blood. Through the funnel of smoke he saw Zuri and several of the others on the first carriage firing downwards. Bullets flared back. One of the Herero was hit: she keeled off the train.
Burton offered Neliah his hand. She gave him the gun, then pulled herself up, spying Zuri and darting towards her.
‘Careful,’ said Burton.
The train was swaying from side to side. He followed, kept his weapon trained on the rear of the carriage, eyes alert for Hochburg’s helicopter. Each step was like walking on greased flagstones. He felt too high up, the sensation somehow worse than the rooftops of Stanleystadt.
Something was tossed after him. A flash-grenade. Burton tried to swipe it away.
BANG!
His ears popped, vision flaring white and green. The train lurched to the side. Burton lost his footing. Landed on his front, spread his limbs and struggled not to slide off.
Bullets ripped through the roof close enough for him to smell sawdust and soot.
‘Burton!’
He looked up, the wind beating his face. Neliah had slipped off the roof, was clutching the edge. On the other carriage Zuri had stopped firing. Stood and stared helplessly.
‘Burton!’
From the corner of his eye he saw one of the Walküres dip its nose and hurtle back towards the train. Burton looped the strap of his Thompson around his neck, crawled towards Neliah. There was a handrail along the edge of the roof: her fingers were clamped round it. He held out his hand. Stretched as far as he could.
Another few inches, just another few inches …
Grasped hold of her.
Burton pulled, forced himself not to think of that long moment as Rougier had slipped from his grip. She wasn’t heavy: was already back on the roof, her eyes bright with relief.
Suddenly Neliah was dragged down again, pulling Burton with her. ‘He’s got me,’ she cried. ‘He’s got me!’
Through the roof Burton heard Uhrig strain as he tried to haul her legs inside.
The Walküre roared overhead, knocking Zuri and the prisoners off their feet. Smoke slapped into Burton’s face: hot flecks of soot. He screwed his eyes shut, felt his arm muscles stretch to tearing point as he tugged on Neliah. She was kicking Uhrig. Burton heard her boots flick and thud against him. He pulled again. Used all his strength.
Without warning she was free.
Burton continued to heave, pulling Neliah on to the roof, sliding right across it to the other side. He let go of her. Tumbled over the edge. Just managed to hook his fingers round the handrail. The strap of the Thompson cut into his neck.
Beneath him the ground rushed past.
Neliah grabbed his collar. Struggled to haul him back on the roof. The force of the wind rammed itself into his mouth.
Then a splintering sound.
Uhrig was breaking the side of the carriage to get to him. A meaty hand smashed right through. Snatched at him. Burton kicked back. Heaved himself up. Kicked again.
The hand vanished. More splintering planks and Uhrig’s face was in the hole: leering pockmarked cheeks. Burton raised his boot. Stamped down. Managed to lever himself back on to the roof.
He unwound the machine gun from his neck. Looked at Neliah. Tears streamed down her face; her shoulder was bulging from its socket, dislocated.
At the far end of the carriage more soldiers were clambering up. Burton fired a ragged salvo from his Thompson: clipped one, made the others duck. Then he ran with Neliah, leaping from the second carriage, tumbling into Zuri and the prisoners on the next.
Burton thrust Neliah into Zuri’s arms. ‘It’s her shoulder. Get her to Patrick.’
Neliah squeezed his arm, stared intently into his eyes. ‘Twice I owe you my life.’
‘No blood oaths, remember.’ He slammed his last magazine into the Thompson. ‘Get to the front!’
With that Burton dropped into the well between the two carriages below. The sound of the tracks was deafening; smoke poured out of the first carriage. The soldiers Zuri had gunned down were sprawled on the floor. Burton knelt, began to untwist the coupling hook.
Someone kicked him from behind.
Burton tumbled forward, dropped the Thompson over the side. He felt hands round his neck, his windpipe being crushed.
Burton rammed himself backwards, smashed his assailant into the carriage wall. For an instant the grip round his throat slackened, then squeezed even harder. Burton choked. H
e was swept off his feet. His head thrust between the coupling.
The ground thundered past. Inches from his face.
A blur of sleepers and stone. The smell of a sandstorm.
Burton squeezed his eyes shut, fumbled for the disconnecting rod and spun it till it was loose. His jugular was turning numb.
‘Standartenführer! I’ve got him!’
Burton grabbed at the fingers round his throat. Tore them back. Relished each joint as it snapped. A shriek. Next moment Burton was free.
He stood, vision swimming, spun round. Duka. The soldier tumbled back, his nose smeared scarlet. Burton grabbed him, hurled him head first between the carriages. He flew on to the tracks, skull bursting like a watermelon.
Burton released the coupling: the second carriage began to slow.
‘Cole!’
Uhrig and another stormtrooper had reached the edge – but the gap was already too wide to leap.
Uhrig gave a murderous roar, as thwarted and furious as a dog on a chain. Next moment he was climbing on to the roof of the carriage. Burton thought he was going to jump after him. He’s crazy. He’ll never make it. But Uhrig was beckoning to the troop carrier. It answered his call, swooped down on the slowing carriage, ropes dangling from its side. Uhrig and the stormtrooper grabbed them.
Burton climbed on to the roof, pulled out his Browning. He was met by wild eyes and the barrel of a gun: Zuri.
The troop carrier lifted into the sky. Burton watched Uhrig swinging beneath its landing gear.
‘Move!’ he said to Zuri.
She ignored him, a guttural whine erupting in her throat. She fired at Uhrig, emptied the magazine. Bullets flickered on the underbelly of the helicopter.
‘Move!’ he said again, tugging on her arm.
Reluctantly she followed, glancing back at Uhrig as he cut through the air. They reached the end of the carriage, jumped on to the tender, crashing into the coal.
The troop carrier descended towards the first carriage, its downdraught swirling smoke everywhere. Soot stung Burton’s eyes.
Uhrig’s boots were twenty feet from the roof.